Afterwards: My Selected Titles
by Fairia
Summary: This is a short series based on an alterante telling of the fate of Carrie White. I wrote this some years ago and had it stored on my computer, not doing anything with it. So I decided to upload it here.CURRENT: the final part tying up past beginnings.
1. Beginnings

Afterwards: My Selected Chapters 

Written in the Voice of Carrie White

After the Prom Massacre, my Momma struggled to get away from the officer as he dragged her out of the Snell's hallway and into a police car. She screamed and banged on the window of the car as Mrs. Snell, Sue's mother, and I looked out.

At seventeen, I thought that all of my life, I would be tortured, beaten, and thrown around, never seeing the light of day. But as my mom, Margaret Bingham White, was driven away from me, I knew I was free. I will have a new life. From then on, I wrote about the experiences that happened after I left town and what I went through to become someone I thought I never would live for.

**NEW LIFE**

Graduation finally came at Bates High School, my valedictorian and bravery rose inside me, but some people in the crowd did not applaud for me. My heart also rose to bloom with a happy feeling I never felt. It was still strange, even as I looked back. Nasty glares that pierced at me were only eyes that didn't understand and I did not notice. The glares and the mocking and the snide grins no longer hurt. All the terrible things that happened, past and present, were to be behind me.

Tommy was on his way to recovery while I stayed with the Snells for a few months afterwards. Sue got reacquainted with me during my stay at her home. She was an angel with overcoming grief and love as we talked like high school friends and shared secrets with each other. Mostly they there about me. She told me out of surprise that she thought she felt my thoughts during the prom night, so she knew the situation I was in already. Listening to her tell me that made me feel that she did care about me. She never told my secret ability to anyone.

The day came for me to venture out on my own. I was sad to leave my "real" family, but my sanity and safety was just as important. It really wasn't about the people who hated me for my Telekinetic powers, but because of the tragedy that could have killed everyone in the area. I couldn't bear to live there and ponder that horrible night of abuse from all who wished to see me cry like I never did, but strangely enough, they were oblivious about my gift.

With my diploma, I moved out of Chamberlain and North Carolina for good and moved to Trenton, New Jersey. I started work at a printing company called Jaskcon Record Publishing, where I was hired for secretarial work with an assistant manager.

I rented a one-bedroom apartment with only my diploma and frames of pictures brightening up the place. Since I loved the Japanese culture, I brought a floor bed and a room divider with orange pictures of Japanese caricatures. It was a beautiful ocean blue color and a nice one-person sized kitchen and dual closet spaces.

I also went to a one-year college for my business degree. It was rare to find a college that lasted for one year; Community ones basically had two-years. I was able to attend since the company sponsored educational opportunities while earning a paycheck.

It was wonderful to be a part of the college crowd as I made many friends, even guy friends. They always invited me to local hangouts like the pizza shops and deli's, while I took in the independent enjoyments.

Everything was working out perfectly. I was promoted to assistant manager of economic affairs at Jackson Record Publishing and my apartment got bigger with better furniture and more household knickknacks added. I graduated college fifth in the class and starting doing paintings for parties and portraits. It was all around 1975. It had been two years since I went with Tommy to the Prom and two years ago since I left.

Soon after the novel came out bearing my name, people started to get suspicious. My worst fear was that all my new friends would separate themselves from me and treat me like some freak if they ever saw me using my powers. I had to be extra cautious, but I didn't need to use Telekinesis since I lost my power during that time. For a couple of years, I was normal for once and people actually thought it was a coincidence that it was the same name and I couldn't "perform" the act for them.

I did read the book though and found out why it was a "coincidence". I died and half of the town died as well, my whole birth and mom's personality were completely misplaced. I was upset about it, but then if I told what happened exactly, my fears would come true. So, I thought to myself, the old life is gone and nothing will be repeated.

**NEW ARRIVALS**

Everything was going well again. There were times I thought about mom and what happened to her the night she was taken away in the squad car. There were times I was afraid of becoming like her; that I would also hurt my child when it was born. My love life was pretty slow and dull anyway. I just couldn't be with another man since Tommy. It was like he was actually the only one for me, until another man came into my life.

I was at the grocery store doing my weekly shopping. I pushed my cart down the canned goods aisle, picking out low price corn and green beans. All of a sudden, my cart collided with another when I wasn't looking. I looked to see who it was and I was, not love struck, but intrigued.

The man in front of me was young looking with small blonde hair like it was attached to his head. He had a hooknose and gentle mischievous eyes; it was like he was a man-boy or whatever it was called. He wore a grey tired sweatshirt and shorts with black sneakers. I also assumed he took an "interest" in me as well.

My voice fluttered, "Hi," as I tried to tame it.

He was upset and was about to retort, but he just smiled.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I must have knocked mine first."

Without any thought, I pushed my cart back and over, avoiding him as much as I could. I did look back and he tried to shrug it off, but it looked like he stayed where he stood. I had to get out of there; I really couldn't see another man without thinking . . . thinking I could hurt someone else like I did with Tommy.

I felt extremely messed up. I couldn't concentrate on the work budget as I was filled with that young man in my head. It was the most interesting thing; there was never a time that I was occupied with finding the right guy or even being with people. It was like my mind changed as fast as I could "lift" a pencil.

To keep my mind clear, I decided to go to the deli café downtown for dinner. It was a cool summer night like in romance movies; the café was nicely warm with the brewing of coffee pots and the kitchen door open letting out the steam from the cooked meals. The tiles were a traditional deli of dirty brown and black tiles and metal benches to cool your rear no matter what season with circular tables mixed with diamond shaped tables displaying napkin dispensers and ketchup and mustard bottles. The soda coolers kept the heat in tack so as it would not be too hot in the place.

I took a seat at a circular table in the back, and then ordered Orange soda, Chicken Parmesan and fries on the side. The chicken was cooked to a crisp, the way I like chicken made. I was also reading one of my novels while I was eating. Around ten minutes after I got there, I heard the store's bell ring, but I ignored it. It was until I heard the chair move and looked to find the same man sitting in the seat in front of me!

I froze like a statue with a pursed mouth as I remembered when he saw me ignoring him and then running away. It was not clear then why he would come to see me let alone sit with me after the way I treated him. As I saw him sitting there, he looked casual and seemed as if I wasn't the one who ran away from him.

It etched in my mind about the day when I was three years old as I stood in front of an opening of the white picket fence that marked the property of my house and our neighbors, The Horans.

Mom was always "at it" with Mrs. Horan, especially of the unmotherly words against her daughter, Stella, saying she is not fit as a teenager or some reason like that. The family, which consisted of the mother and daughter who lived there, were some of the nicest people in the neighborhood. Helping out with the community fair every summer and members of the local church, not one hint of anything sinful or wild, and if something dirty were said about them, the rest of the neighbors would have a fit and turn against the ones whoever caused them ridicule. Knowing mom, the respect of the community toward us broke in two, never to be sewed back before my high school days and afterwards.

I stood out there that August in a shiny blue dress with ruffles as I stared at Stella sunning outside in a white two-piece bathing suit. Then, she took off her sunglasses and looked at me as I looked back at her. She noticed my sad expression and face hanging on the opening like she saw me from outside a prison cell.

I pointed at her chest and said, "What are those?"

Before she could say my name, she looked down and found her top slipped down, showing her clear white breasts and quickly pulled the top over her chest.

"Those . . . are my breasts, Carrie," She said quickly.

"Like chicken breasts," was my silly reply.

Stella snorted from the remark and tried to hold her belly down.

I stared at her like she was a mad woman and felt insulted from asking a polite, yet naïve question.

"I'm sorry," she calmed down, "but they're not like that. They're breasts that a woman has."

"It's something how life throws curveballs at you," he joked, drawing my attention.

My frozen pose melted as I cocked my eye on what he just said. "What do you mean by that," asking as if I never had any problems.

"I knew I would see you again."

He knew? Does he have any powers I like do?

"You're not psychic, are you," I asked stupidly. I almost took back what I said as I remembered my "chicken breast" question, thinking that this attractive man would laugh as a joke or if he thought I was some nerd.

"Only someone," he smiled, "Who can move anything with their mind would ask a supernatural question like that."

Then the light in my brain ticked and popped like a baseball bat hitting a light bulb. I thought vigorously how he knew who I _really_ was and what I can do.

"I'm not anything like that. It's just normal curiosity."

Leaning closer, he said in a low voice, "Carrie? That's your name, right?"


	2. The Past

Afterwards: My Selected Chapters 

Written in the Voice of Carrie White

**BEGINNINGS**

I was born Carrietta Nadina1 White on September 22, 1956 to Margaret and Ralph White. Before I was born, many things have happened, before I was old enough to understand. My father, a tall, lean man with tan-like skin and sandy hair, was a constructor who helped build houses and strip malls around our town in North Carolina (no mention of Maine since it was only stretched in the book). My mom, a woman with dark curly hair at the time was a homemaker who dallied with newspaper reports of crimes against children, very different from being religiously fanatical, and daddy wasn't really aware. He didn't know that mom had this obsession because he believed it was more concern of the welfare of children, at least when he was looking. They were never married, but they felt they didn't want sex for their own reasons.

One night, daddy got drunk at a bar and came back home to mom who was reading a novel. She refused to have him "acting like a pervert" and just ignored him, but daddy didn't listen and he did it; mom screamed and pounded on him to get off, behaving like she was raped. As soon as it was over, dad disappeared into the night and mom lied in bed with her arms sprawled back, suppressing a sexual smile while thinking she _was_ raped by a man she was suppose to love, but could never love. What might have went through her mind was her belief that she could never get pregnant since her sexual organs were "obsolete" and that she hated children all through her life.

And that was when she _did_ get pregnant. She tried and tried to abuse her body just to get rid of me, but dad kept stopping her when he was around. Unkindly, all through those eight months, he disappeared almost once a week in the night. Mom, in her case had her little boyfriend named John, who was her cohort in mentally abusing me as they delinquently fooled around like a bunch of out of control teens on talk shows.

Then, dad went out for the last time as he made it clear to mom that he was leaving her for another woman he was seeing on those nights. Mom was left to raise me for the last month, alone as she dumped John.

In the afternoon of my birth, mom went into labor in the house. She screamed and huffed like a cow in a slaughterhouse on her bed in the ground floor of the house. Having thought she was going to die from the pain or her plan failing, she stumbled into the kitchen and got a long slender knife. She returned to her room and lied in bed, holding the knife like a sword against her chest, screaming and huffing as my body came out. Sweaty and bloody, mom was about to strike, but, from her account, my body literally moved and she could only cut the umbilical cord. She both lay in bed, crying out from the disaster.

The police came around six at night and discovered our bodies, blood around the floor and bed as they thought a murder took place. An ambulance was called and they took us to the hospital, despite mom screaming and yelling not to take her anywhere and crying, "Damn Ralph! Damn the witch!"

While at the hospital, the birth certificate showed I was born around 1:22 pm and weighed six pounds and ten ounces. Unfortunately, mom was not committed to a local hospital, but was only diagnosed with shock and so they sent us home. Afterwards, home was never the same.

**REJECTION**

My home life had nothing to do with a "home, sweet home" kind of atmosphere. I was always kept in the house at a young age and only went outside for at least half an hour, when mom was hanging laundry outside. The house had a weird appearance, almost spotless white outside, but dark and orange inside; like a white bon-bon with dark chocolate and caramel in the center.

Money was tight and mom went to work for the Blue Ribbon Laundry at a strip mall in town, one of the buildings dad help built. Even at work, she still had time to read a newspaper with all the clippings of child abuse and maniacal crimes, some about serial killers and wacky people. Her attitude was stern, but she still kept her job, no matter how pathetically she treated co-workers and customers; her boss thought she was keeping people in line as his excuse for her.

During my stay in the house, I played with toys donated from the hospital, assuming that they had a caring hand for my well-being. I spent a lot of time in my nursery room, drawing and playing as one infant can do. One thing I developed was a gift for poetry as I made repeated rhymes and short sentences around a year old; I kept about five different poems in a pile on the floor.

One day, I consciously knew the abuse was going to start. Mom came into the room to bring me down for dinner, but she only saw my poetry pile as a mess.

"What the hell are you doing making a mess," she cried. I only stared innocently. She stomped past me and grabbed the pile off the floor and fiddled through them.

"Why are you wasting your time with these?!"

Once again, I only stared.

Then she tore the papers in a rage and I cried helplessly.

"You want these," she sneered at me, acting like she was nice and then threw the papers in my face. "Stupid brat! Drawing shit like that," she left saying.

I cried and screamed as she went out the door, and then, I developed something else. The door slammed by itself just as mom's foot was in the way of the door. She dropped on the floor outside of the room and shuffled up to beat on the door.

"Carrie," she yelled. "Carrie! Open the door, dammit!" But somehow, I managed to keep it shut, using some strange force I didn't know I was using.

Then, I spoke my first word, "Open." I cooed and the door squeaked open with mom spilling onto the floor.

She looked up at me and she could only muster a shocking stare. If anything, she might have known something weird had happened that not even a year old infant could possibly do. Then she broke the silence.

"How did . . . I wasn't going to feed you for what you drew," she confidently said, "But you'll be bitching again later."

So she picked me up and brought me down stairs for dinner.

Psychologically speaking, I didn't do poetry around her for fear of being hurt again, but my little mind knew then that I could protect myself if she did anything again. Even though mom didn't like shopping for me when we were in a grocery store, she had to take some for the sake of keeping up a facade and always gave me mashed fruit and peas, which were my favorite baby foods.

**ABUSE**

The constant part of my life functioned as grounds for abuse from my mother. In truth, I didn't know it was like that and no one either seemed to help or care. Most of the motives were slapping, hitting, punching and beating my face and neck. Mixed with a throwing around like a Frisbee, and a magnet for the walls thousands of countless times. I was also subjected to verbal trashing, being called "stupid", a "bitch", and a "moron", which was her pet name for me. She always told me that I was worthless if I didn't do something she thought was right.

While appearing as if she was like a mother to me, mom taught me at a young age that I should earn money, so she assigned me chores, sometimes cleaning the floor and organizing the shelves. Quarters piled up and I had enough to buy a box that I could keep all my keepsakes and money I earned. When I couldn't reach a certain spot or if mom wasn't looking, I would use my power to help clean under a tight spot or lifted heavy books and pots.

Unfortunately, mom found the broom standing in the air, sweeping, as I was reading a book for enjoyment; she was furious as the person's darkest hour. She took the broom from midair and started to beat me over the head with it, saying that "my thing" is not meant for it and told me I had to make money another way.

Many incidents have happened during my first years before I started grade school.

"How come my mommy didn't tell me that," I had to ask.

"Oh you won't get those for a while," Stella smiled. "Aren't you hot in that?"

I blurted, "Do you want me to be your sister?"

Then Stella's smile shattered from the frightful question. She knew that I was serious at yet such a young age to say something like that.

"I want a sister because mommy doesn't talk to me like you do."

Stella stepped toward me and squatted to reach my height with her hand touching my shoulder through the fence like petting a farm animal. I wanted to move away from her touch, but the hand felt calm and smooth like a breeze before the spring season starts.

"Honey," Stella comforted, "I'm sure your mommy talks to you. I can still be your friend if you want to."

"I don't . . ." Then I was cut off by a clunking sound, something I remembered fearing if I ever dropped something that made that sound.

We both turned around and mom stood at the back door and the fresh washed sheets scattered on the steps and spilled onto the ground. She clenched her fist and screamed, "CAAAAARRRRRRIIIIIEEEE!"

I turned back to Stella for a final plea in my face and ran for my mother.

"Mama," I cried and she flagged me up in her arms.

The door closed behind us as I was faced with the dark house, waiting for another punishment. Mom dragged me to the open wall while holding my throat and her fingers squishing my cheeks with full force.

"What were you doing out there, Carrie," Mom screeched. "I told you not to go there!"

"I wanted to talk to . . ." I blurted and blubbered from condensed cheeks and stopped

"And talk about what? How you think you're so smart?!"

"But . . ."

"Quiet! You know what happens to you."

I shook my head in desperation as she headed for the door by the fridge, leaving me to breathe again like the last breath I would ever take.

Inside was a green lined closet with bricks on the bottom, almost two feet each side and a light in dim yellow. Mom always entrapped me in there if I did something wrong or if she saw something funny about my "lifting".

Her hard hands took hold of my long blonde hair and attempted to drag me toward the dark room. I tried to tear her hands away, but she proved too strong and pulling my head forward would only tear half of my hair out.

I knew I had to stop this with the use of a defensive force, which was only seen in early childhood. Mom's hands tugged harder and something went _flex_ as the hands disappeared from touch and a clunk was heard. Mom slumped by the fridge like a rag doll. Knowing the shock I felt from using this ability, I had to stare at mom, as she appeared unconscious. I never wanted to hurt her, but it was like another person in me who thought that behavior was not acceptable.

My power started again, it was at my mother. I felt so lost and betraying by using my power against her. How I wished to sink through the floor and not have to deal with this again.

But instead of sinking, I was tackled on as her humongous hands held onto my tiny wrists. I heard a click sound from my wrists.

"I don't know how you did it again, Carrie. But," She pulled me up and placed me in the closet and slammed it shut. "This time, you're staying in there longer! No more out of you!" Her shoes went clicking away from the kitchen as I sat there not wanting to cry or scream because I was too confused and upset to do anything.

I did sit there longer, for three hours until mom opened the door and I looked up at her.

"I'm sorry, Mama," was what I was taught to say.

Mom picked me up into her arms and carried me upstairs.

"It's time for bed," she blankly said. Her tough arms placed me on my bed and pulled the cover over my face. It was like witnessing the throttling of my soft neck. I muffled a scream before she would notice, as I was afraid she would smother me again.

"What was that," she asked.

I shook my head, hoping she would not know. Mom ignored it and went to turn the light off, the door closed with a soft click.

My little body was in an enormous bed, which replaced the crib at two and a half with an orange lamp glowing around the dark with little bright spots. All of my toys are set in a neat pile and my plastic desk with fitted drawing pictures. I've always liked to be organized; even though mom took advantage of it by saying she taught me that lesson.

When naps or bedtime came around after any terrible situation I lay in bed before falling asleep thinking about my favorite thought. I've always dreamt of doing something creative with my life like doing artwork and being a good mom. For a three year old, I hoped I could be a good one. I knew I love mom, but there are just some things that she makes me mad about.

I knew that at a very young age, a child doesn't think about all the troubles of the world, but I received all of life's troubles since I was in diapers.

**SCHOOLING**

I started preschool in 1961 with a sense of hope for going somewhere different, away from mom for a least a short time. There were other kids about my height, but I felt confused on how to get along with other children.

With a calm courage, I went up to a little girl with short blonde hair who was sitting at her little chair.

"Hi," I greeted her.

The girl turned her head with a face of impatience. Her face looked snooty but tried to be attractive. I thought she would grow up to have the same face she had as a child

"Go away, scrub," she barked.

All I could do was flinch as I clasped my lunchbox to my chest. She rose from her chair and knocked my lunchbox out of my hands.

"Scrubs like you are supposed to eat on the floor."

I sobbed softly as I picked up my stuff and left. It was very confusing about what happened. How could kids have this behavior at such a young age?

During my first years at school, I came to know her as Chris Hargenson. She always had the other kids taunt me all the time, pulling my long hair, grabbing my nose, knocking my books over, throwing papers at me, calling me "scrub" and "plain dirty" for my old fashion dresses and looking messy.

The two girls I went to school with all my life became to me my greatest enemies. First, there's Chris, short for Christine. Her father was a hotshot lawyer who looked the other way from her pranks and tricks. Chris was also the biggest bully to all the other kids who didn't fit in. As it was mentioned in the book, Chris almost blew a girl's toes off by putting a firecracker in her shoe.

Sue . . . well, Sue Snell was something out of the ordinary; a girl who taunted me yet tried to fix the mistakes she did to me. She had the most handsome boy in school, Tommy Ross, a track and field star and a baseball pro with a gift for poetry. From that gift I knew he was "dreamy" to find someone else with that talent. Overall, Sue was a kind girl who thought she could change the world. At times, we tried to be goody two-shoes, even if I had no clue how to do anything good, "according to mama".

I did remember the time when mom became pregnant around mid 1964 when I was six. For the first time, mom was calm and peaceful around me. I was overjoyed of when the day came for a baby brother or sister to be born. What confused me was that dad wasn't around and mom was not seeing anyone. I kept myself from saying why that was so as not to get hit during this peaceful time.

Then the day came when mom went to the hospital and I was sitting with a nurse who drew with me when the delivery happened. It was April 9, 1965.

I wasn't prepared for what happened next. The doctor came and calmly told me that the baby died during the delivery. I was torn apart as I cried the whole time to myself, not showing my feelings to mom when we took a taxi back to the house. Here I was waiting for a sibling to help me through my life and wanting to teach it what I knew, all shattered in a calm explanation.

After the pregnancy episode, I was still ridiculed at school and was graffiti on walls or desks in different grades. Even at a summer camp, my bed was short sheeted and I was dunked in the lake. I knew right then that no one liked me nor will they ever. As much as I tried to love mom, I never found it there. I always told myself that when these things happened to me, I wasn't important.

All twelve years of schooling has been the same; beaten up at school _and_ at home. The usual beatings and taunts and put downs didn't change much.

The whole thing about the menstrual dilemma was off. Yes, I was scared that I was bleeding to death, but mom never taught me about the cycle because she thought there was no use for talking about it. It had nothing to do with religion again. To tell the truth, her thought process is simple as her mind in reason. She felt that I should learn everything on my own, but yet she would beat me or yell at me if I didn't know anything. Overall, I was a big joke around the school.

Another unknown chapter in my life was when I had at least someone with whom I could talk to like a friend.

It was 6th grade and I met a young girl who lived in town. Her name was Becki Johnson and she was the sweetest girl I ever met when she transferred from Texas. Her hair was shoulder length of thick red; she had black glasses and a ball tip nose. Her voice was also airy, but she didn't have a Texan accent, but her smile was like a cat's curled lip, so kind and sincere. Becki would be the only one to sit with me at lunch, helped me with my homework, and taught me about the Japanese language and culture when her father worked there for the army.

When she taught me to sew, we started our own private sewing business where we earned money by asking around the town after school if they needed something sewed. Since mom stopped handing me money for chores, I earned all the money I needed for books, clothes and such.

Ironically, the sweet life was taken away from me as her family was transferred out of town to live in Chicago. My only friend was telekinesis as I lifted many things and I spend my time alone even more, as it consisted of homework, sewing, and earning money.

To me, everything got worse inside and I thought nothing could save me. I thought I would be a slave in my own White War with no emancipation for the rest of my life. That was . . .

**DESTINED**

In 1973, on the faithful night, as my mother lay on the cold wooden floor after she suffered from a telekinetic heart attack, all I could do was stare. With my mouth gaped and wet strings of hair that hung around my face.

What happened to me through the night raced through my head.

It was Prom Night and I knew I wasn't going to be a part of the "in crowd". Tommy asked to the dance and I was so scared; I was thinking that I was set up for another prank. Miss Collins has been kind to me since the period incident as she convinced me to go to the prom.

Again mom was angry with me as she threw tea in my face like a terrible dog I thought I was. Over my life, my power grew stronger and I began to gain control over the situation with shutting all the windows. She knew of my power now, but said nothing and avoided me.

Tommy took me to the prom in his 70's suede tuxedo and me in a pink satin gown with a shawl and a matching beautiful skin and hair. I knew he goes out with Sue and I was skeptical of what the idea was of taking me to a prom, but I had to tell myself to have a good time I so deserved.

Since this was the last year of school, I was finally relieved to be out of here and away from all the taunting and teasing. It came as a surprise that I will graduate as a valedictorian, starting work in the new printing company outside of town that I had my eye on, and even go to the graduation since I have escaped mom for this event. Inside was all glitter and pink with a glitter blue background for the King and the Queen to stand in for the coronation. All the kids were there and even the girls who had hurt me before, Norma Watson, Helen and the rest; they all seemed happy I was there as if nothing ever happened between us in our school career.

I danced with Tommy on the floor and felt as if we were floating. What made the magic more unbelievable were the words two couples could hear:

"Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you the King and Queen: Tommy Ross and Carrie White!"

Boys hooted and girls cheered for our names as we took for the stage with applause and smiles for the biggest accomplishment of my life, just like I had developed poetry and telekinesis with a freedom that would never end.

Then, on the stage, something cold and went splashed on me. The crowd gasped from what they saw. Blood started to drip down in streaks and my face contorted with tears. The crowd started to laugh as a bucket fell on Tommy's head and he keeled over. The blood now covered my whole body and dress; the laughing continued.

All I could think of was that they did this to me for the last time and now, they won't get away from it.

So I shut the doors telekinetically and stared the hose on the corner, as it opened and squeezed high-pressured water everywhere. Shouts and screams rang through the gymnasium, everything drenched and thrown around, just like how mom threw me around at a young age.

But what wasn't expected was that the hose splashed onto the electrical wiring and sparks started to jump in tiny bits and then the fire boomed out of the control.

Through all the emotions, my face was a mix of anger and sadness. I felt sick as my mind raced and my nose filled with smoke, so I just ran out of the prom and through the doors, tripping on my sandals. I just ran away from everything as my shoes were left behind with the fire burning.

While floating home, a sudden car catches up to me with fast speed, but like knocking over a toy car, the car flipped and I had no saintly choice but to set is ablaze. Little did I know that Chris and her boyfriend, Billy Nolan were in it.

I bathed myself as soon as I got home from the horrible time at the prom, mom stood in front of me by the bathroom door, dressed in what I thought was a white nightgown, but it was the nightgown she gave birth to me in.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she began. "I told your father many times that I did not want to be "made" on. My body was not meant for some pervert to leap onto! I was just as stupid as you were . . ."

My face remained in tears as I looked at my mom. She knew she hated what happened to her on that night, but from a sexual smile it turned to an angry smile.

"I have told you this many times. You are stupid to be brought into this world, just as I was stupid. Good thing I took the liberty to get rid of your sister.

My brain felt like it exploded; I had a sister? I thought the baby died. My body was stiff and my eyes fixed as she continued to talk.

"No one can help me now, but myself," she lisped.

Her hand drew out a knife she used at my birth and held it high. She swung down, but I dodged it, only to have my shoulder stabbed by the tip. I was on the floor with the blade injured into me. I pulled as hard as I could as drips of blood poured out.

I looked at her and she looked at me. Our eyes fixed on our anger toward each other.

My words to her were, "Don't worry, _mom_! You won't have to look at me again!"

My eyes scrunched and aimed for her heart.

"What are you doing," she asked in shock.

"Fixing this for you."

I thought of her red, beating heart of a muscle to pump and beat rapidly. Mom grabbed her chest and fell on her knees. Her breath was filled with gasps and croaks and the rest toppled.

I sat in my little room, eyes wandering around the dusty walls and all the plain furniture that turned to my mother's colors of jealousy and sickness. If I really wanted to get away, it would be now.

As quickly as I could, I stumbled for extra clothes in my outside closet and took a long wool coat since it was cold out. Grabbing my suitcase from under my bed, brought by my own money, I took my brush from my dresser, my diary from my table, socks, underwear and such. Then my safe box with all my money and hidden pictures secured from mom and closed the case tight. The last thing I took was my key for the box.

Outside, I found mom still lying on the floor, no movement what so ever. It was looking at her that I realized that I was about to become like everyone who hated me and never wanted me. I got down on my knees and I prayed:

_Dear Lord,_

_Forgive me for what I have done. I never thought I could ever be foolish to try to hurt others, even though they hurt me. All I ever wanted was happiness. Please Lord; I would do anything to take them back, even if I have to give up my gift. I don't care much for any material thing I had, but anything is better than this. Please bring them back, Lord._

As I finished, I charged down the stairs and out the front door, hoping for a destination I knew I had to turn to.

**FINAL**

Around one in the morning, I arrived at Sue's house, hoping that her family would help me. I rang their doorbell repeatedly and banged on the door. Mrs. Snell answered in her blue robe and slippers with pink curlers in her hair. She appeared every groggy and confused with my presence.

"Carrie," she dozed.

"Mrs. Snell," I said in an antsy voice, "I'm in trouble. Can I come in?"

She looked at me with more confusion.

"What's going on," she asked.

"Please let me in, Mrs. Snell!"

"Okay, dear," and she lead me inside.

She brought me over to the couch to sit as she grabbed a nearby comfort chair. Her eyes were dark yet glassy and she had somewhat clear skin as if she put on makeup at night.

"Now, dear. Tell me what's going on."

Through tears, I cried, "I killed her."

She stepped her head back.

"You did what?"

"I . . . killed my mom . . . and all the rest. I didn't mean to! It was like they deserved it."

There, I said it. Now I knew she would call the police on me.

"Carrie," she tried to assure me. "I would never think you would do that . . ."

"But they are . . ." I was interrupted by the doorbell. Mrs. Snell excused herself and went to the door. When she came back, a young looking policeman with blonde hair was with her. _Now_ I was going to be arrested, just how mom planned it. The officer kneeled on the floor by the couch and proceeded.

"Ms. White," he asked.

"Y-yes?" I stuttered.

"Can I ask you a few questions?"

I stood up, almost knocking him over.

"Please sir, I didn't mean to!"

A flowerpot cracked in the corner. Mrs. Snell and the officer were shocked by its sudden action.

"I'm sorry I killed them! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

The officer took my hands.

"Ms. White," he said over my crying. "No one is dead."

I looked up in my own confusion. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"But, the fire at the school! I set it!"

"Well, from the reports, everyone got out safe."

Can this be the miracle I just prayed to God to? That I didn't have to give up my TK? Knowing that response, I kept a mental smile inside. I wasn't like my enemies at all. At that point, things will get better.

"CARRIE!"

Except that.

"CARRIE, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR," my mom screamed outside. The three of us turned to the door. The officer motioned us to stay where we were as he cautiously walked to the door. The knob turned and mom burst through, holding the knife like a madwoman. The young officer restrained her, but she kicked and screamed all they way.

"You don't understand," she cried. "She tried to kill me because I wouldn't give her money."

She brought up a lie from my past, having the nerve to say something like that.

"Mom, how could you say that, _you_ tried to kill me!"

Then her panics stopped and she gave me an icy stare.

"You are supposed to say _Momma_ to me."

"Momma? What's going on here Mrs. White," Mrs. Snell blurted.

"It's not my fault! It's the bitch's fault! I never wanted her! Tell her, bitch!"

"Okay," the officer ordered, "Let's go."

1 A made up middle name to replace the "N".


	3. Reggie

Afterwards: My Selected Chapters 

Written in the Voice of Carrie White

**MY FUTURE HUSBAND**

Thinking back to those terrible days made this moment even worse. I couldn't tell him these memories; I wouldn't let him know. I don't even know him, but he knew my name. How?

"How did you know my name," I said out loud.

"Well, it's not from the book if that's what you're asking. I remembered you as a secretary before you took Dan Patterson's job."

Dan Patterson was the assistant manager at Jaskcon.

"Oh," I said coyly.

"So let's cut to the chase then."

"What?"

"I mean . . . you want to go out sometime?"

"What?"

"Is that all you say these days?"

He was asking _me_?On a _date_?

"N-no. . . I mean . . ." I bit into my thumb skin, biting down softly. "I'm sorry. . ." I was ready to walk out again, when he took my arm. He didn't tug on it or squeezed it too hard like he wanted to bring me down.

"My name's Reggie." Out of the blue, he said his name like nothing else was happening. "It's . . . short for Reginald, but I hate that."

"I'm Carrie, but that's short for Carrietta."

He beamed a broad smile. "That's such a cute name. It really is."

"Reggie, I…"

"Look. I'm not out to harm you if that's what you're thinking. I'm still a decent guy for what it's worth. But, let's make it easier for you. Why not now, officially, make it a date. No waiting. No anticipation. Just right here. Anything you want to do, we'll do it."

I gave it a little extra thought before I agreed. He was right; he was who he said he was for the most part. It was then that our date started. We finished up our own lunches at the deli and Reggie escorted me to the local park afterwards. We sat on the wooden benches; I was slightly leaning on my lap with my hands folded, watching the pond glimmer and a few ducks swimming and flapping their feathers. We then talked a little about our likes and dislikes and it was then Reggie told me a few things about himself. He was adopted after he was born and lived in Trenton most of his life. He dreamed of becoming an FBI agent as he worked as a volunteer deputy with the police department.

"How far do you go back," I asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… do you "look" for things in other counties or states?"

"Oh, you mean like do we do background checks?"

"I guess so." I wasn't sure if that's what it was.

"It's only done when necessary. Where as in the FBI, they investigate all over; not just one county. They could even go as far another country to find what they're looking for."

"Really," taking an interest despite my hidden nervousness. What if someone knows about what happened in Chamberlin where he worked? I know no one was killed for some odd reason nor did the fire get out of control, but I would think there was information about my childhood kept away in a folder after it all happened. I couldn't tell him about that, even if he really liked me. So, I swore never to reveal my secret. That my past would not be revealed.

For weeks, Reggie and I have been dating and going steady. He took me to my first movie show and went to a Tasty Freeze every weekend for strawberry ice creams floats. We went out to dinner every other week; I invited him to a Japanese restaurant with excellent food for his first time.

Everything was moving by so quickly, the romantic weeks became months, my caution melting away; he saw nothing of the ordinary so far and I still wanted it that way. Reggie also spend more time at my apartment, occasionally staying the night whenever he was working late as he lived five miles away from the town.

Seven months came when we still dated and it was two days before my birthday. We arrived back from dinner to my apartment, his jacket atop the hat rack, then carrying a little something in his palm. On his bended knee, he opened the jewelry box to reveal a genuine diamond engagement ring. My only response was hugging him on the floor, softly crying. They were so foreign to me. They weren't tears of sadness, or hollow, no one hurt me, no one scolded me. They were…. tears… of happiness. That I could feel the sensation was phenomenal; what I thought was lost among the fire and persecution. But it came none the less…it was more than what I felt for Tommy. Bigger than that. More real. How could all this fall into place so seamlessly?

Our wedding was attended by Reggie's colleagues and their families. I felt alone among these strangers. No one from my old life came to see this moment. I'm not surprised really. Sue and her family wanted to forget the ordeal they went though, despite how kind and hospitable they were. All I knew was that I was in love. It was so odd to feel that way without guilt. I never imagined I would be married; I never even picture Momma married, that no one was that special to her; not even me. And as I took my vows, I could tell how seamless it really was as that gold ring slipped onto my finger, pushing back all the memories, all the terror, the sadness, the loneliness, like a bulldozer scrapping away the muck and debris.

And among the flying rice and petal dropped steps, it was a shower of all things pristine, a true white. A white that became Mrs. Carrie Nadina White-Krueger.


	4. Child of Violence, Then of Truth

Afterwards: My Selected Chapters 

Written in the Voice of Carrie White

What am I getting myself into? How can I bring someone else into the world? I was afraid. That I would hate him or her for no reason, or just feel so lucky to have one of my own, but something would snap one day that would make their life miserable ...

**WHAT IS MARGARET WHITE?**

_The time is now interrupted during Carrie's quandary crisis, to now bring the story to what happened to her mother when she was dragged away on the fateful night to a police car…_

The only information about Margaret White's life was stated in child adoption reports of her family of life. Born in 1931, she was adopted by a single mother raising her two biological daughters, Janine and Etta, and taking care of their grandmother, living outside of Los Angeles. While overall well-behaved, it wasn't until as an eight-year-old girl, she broke off a friendship over what thought to be that the friend was Jewish; the real reason after many years was because the girl displayed Psychokinetic abilities that frightened Margaret.

Since then, young Margaret has displayed violent behavior and constant, vicious bantering against the incapacitated elder matriarch, unable to defend herself. A rumor was claimed that at nine-years-old, Margaret dropped a newborn baby inside a garbage can; it was neither claimed nor counted if the infant was alive, as a body was never recovered. Her foster mother defended her child like she was her own, despite the frustration from her two other daughters.

When Margaret turned 17, she was fed up with living with the all-female family, and filed legal separation from the family, a ward of the state for the next year, moving out of the area and to the other side of the United States. The years between when she legally became of age and the time of her first born are shrouded in mystery, but with any indication from her violent acting out as a child, it would not be the first time she would cross the line with the law.

After the arresting struggle, Margaret White was awaiting trial while residing at the women's prison two towns over. She was being tried for attempted manslaughter and child endangerment (multiple counts for). The first day she was brought over; everyone there was talking about her. Margaret had a pale look to her face, her eyes were vacant and drifting off to somewhere, but became hard and powerful when confronted eye to eye with any of the other women. Rumors flourished that Margaret was claiming religion as her excuse for murder, planning to set fire to her home using ripped bible pages. Others have said she was framed for the attempted prom massacre because she hated the student population as much as her daughter or about her husband coming to her in a dream and warning what would happen.

One inmate sought the opportunity to give White a piece of her mind. Her civilian name used to be Abigail Piper; now goes by cell number 24691. Her hair was golden and cropped, prickly along the lines of her neck; upper arms bulked up after hours everyday for 2 years spent in the gym. She had dark lines along her eyes so shadowy it appeared to be eye liner. She was taller than most of the other women and ruled like a mighty queen.

The beginning of trouble for White's short time in prison became revealed one time at lunch break; as usual Margaret was sitting along, shoulders drooping and looking down at the quaint square tray of a milk carton, whipped potatoes and sloppy Salisbury steak; her hair mopping against her forehead, pretending to be a martyr not fit to eat with humanity. She muttered something about cooking better than this shit and being framed.

Abigail made it her business to interrupt Margaret's lament, striding to the lone chrome table, her leg up and bent on the bench, her arm resting on the knee; a cigarette dangling on the right side lip. She drew in a breath, broke the cigarette away from her mouth's grasp and blew into her face; Margaret unmoving and unflinching.

"So," She began gruffly, "You're the new bitch everyone's talking about? You don't look so tough. Gotta admit, you have that creepy religious thing going."

Margaret didn't say a word, but stared down at her plate and seemed to ignore her. Abigail tried a more aggressive approach.

"Hey, look, I don't what exactly happened, but what I do know is that you ended up in a place like this, walking along like you're better than everyone else and claiming you're an innocent little twat-"

"You don't know me," Margaret breathed finally, not looking up.

"Hell I don't," Abigail started becoming frustrated. " 'Mean, what kind of mother would do that?" She removed her leg from the bench and began to slowly stroll around her. "Forget all about that prom thing… I mean, no body died, it's not like it was the kid's fault…" Margaret's face contorted when she said that. "You're more like the female lion that ate her cubs instead of killing the predators."

"You don't know me," She repeated again. "You're too man and whorish to be a mother," Margaret choked on the word "mother".

"That so, huh?" Abigail's face became engulfed in red skin, her breath as hot as the heat in her face, steam blowing onto a wisp of White's hair, but still she remain positioned as is. Abigail grabbed the small carton, threatening to squeeze it until it exploded in her grip. Already unopened, she tore the flaps off and chugging the white substance into Margaret's face; the only time her eyes making any movement, constantly blinking to get excessive milk out.

"You better learn _your_ place, twat," Abigail continued, "There ain't any kids to kill here or steal their lunch money from." Her rant over, Abigail strode away; stepping no more than four steps when something grabbed along her jumper collar, nails digging into neck skin before a sucker punch was jabbed to where her kidney was; another body against her lunged to her back, knocking her to cement floor, turning her body roughly over with fists flying and punching at her face. Her ears and the walls filled with the hoots and hollers of the other inmates, watching from afar and cheering for the fight. Abigail lifted a free arm to grab hold of Margaret's breast, trying to shove the wild woman off of her, but Margaret continued to punch her, taking a hold of her chest and digging in further, Abigail crying out. She tried to flip Margaret over to wail punches of her, but the woman was suddenly spry and staking her claim and power. Abigail kneed her in the stomach, her arms going limp as Abigail flung her off and attempted to grab hold of her arms. She was only successful in scratching her nose and cheekbones when Margaret squarely punched her in the face, her nose crinkling on the inside.

Both women were now grabbing each other's shoulders, squeezing each other to the ground. Margaret grabbed Abigail's neck, pressing along the lines; Abigail making the mistake of lifting her arms to break off her hand, but Margaret used the other free hand to clasp along her fingertips and stepped/dragged the imposing woman over to the wall. The crowd became fierce and yelled louder and faster; guards where pushing aside ladies to get through. Instead of pinning her there, Margaret lowered Abigail's head and rammed it into the coiled radiator, the metal chiming loudly inside the mess hall, quieting down the audience. Abigail's head rammed against the radiators again, permanently shutting up the crowd. Two guards appeared before Margaret could make the third, tearing her hands away from the butch woman, now dull eyed and her nose red like Santa Clauses' and dripping blood. Margaret didn't resist; she opted for spitting in Abigail's face and turning her nose away as the crowd divided a path for the three to cross. Margaret's sight of the lifeless Abigail faded away fast, shrinking from her eyes and covered up by the crowd receding back in place.

More sentences were charged to Margaret by way of aggravated assault. Abigail survived the incident, but suffered from occasional memory relapses and, because of the sudden and constant hammering against the radiator had resulted in permanent numbness in her arms. It became too painful to even lift the dumbbells at the gym hall. By then, Margaret was transferred to the maximum security wing, deep in the basement; Abigail, yet, was fearful of seeing Margaret in the mess hall or recreation room, unaware that her meals were brought downstairs and activity time heavily watched by numerous guards.

Margaret was unanimously found guilty of all charges and was sentenced to 20 years in prison; parole only for good behavior. The old neighborhood thought the sentence was too lenient for her, but Carrie moved away by then so her opinion on the matter wasn't heard. Five years had passed with no events or turmoil taking place. Margaret kept her business to herself and every inmate away from her. Their group theory: Abigail was a strong woman during her prison terms, arms to die for and turned into a sniveling, paranoid wreck in minutes by an inmate who was imprisoned no longer than a week. Margaret was now a woman to be feared and respected, but more feared than anything.

Margaret served her term with good behavior and was released. She was truly alone; she didn't have any friends to begin with, her home taken away, no work and no money. The only person to take pity on her was a young woman by the name of Annabelle. She was only 20-years-old then; released for a petty crime in the county jail, about to return home to her boyfriend. Annabelle heard about Margaret's escapades in prison and showed a deep respect to a woman, short and meek, was powerful enough to command things on her own. Even though she knew what she was imprisoned for, it didn't phase her beliefs. She let Margaret stay with her and her boyfriend for a while, looking for work on the side. Margaret didn't have a career in mind; her mind was busy planning.

Back on the day, before she fought Abigail in the lunch hall, she remembered her words, shifting the blame away from Carrie, that she was someone to be feared, powers too great to be seen and beyond humanity's limit. It didn't matter if nobody was mysteriously killed by the result; something else must've triggered such a cover up she believed. What if all children had this potential, to tear away from a parent's strong hold, even from those that wanted them? Not only was humanity at risked, but those that give life to them. There had to be a way to keep from anyone bringing any other evil into the world; it had to be wiped out, no pity for any of them, even for those that are already here.

The energy in her head began to come alive, as her theories rode down that stream of consciousness; her purpose coming before her, the one she has always known she was suppose to do, but now to be made for everyone else. She told Annabelle her idea for a meeting: gather anyone that feels the way she does, parent or not, to meet at a community center or a school gymnasium, anywhere was fine.

A meeting was assembled in a faux wooden boarded room at a local recreation center. The agenda was mentioned to be a "parenting skill" lesson, no children allowed. The few that showed up were asked to fill out a questionnaire survey with a few unique questions on the survey, such as if the person has ever seen any paranormal activity or what you really hate about children. Annabelle worked as the secretary for the meeting, writing down notes of names and personal information about the attendees. Some were drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and waiting in their seats. Margaret arrived from the back room by the flag post, papers under her arms and presented them flat out on the podium, her brief notes of ideas and beliefs she would lay out for the attendees.

After introductions by the ladies were out of the way, Margaret finally spoke.

"What I am about to tell you, I'm afraid, isn't what you would call "orthodox". I am about to tell you about parenting methods that need to be followed. In a way, this would be like giving up the "traditional" role of parent." The audience murmured amongst themselves. "We are no longer to be parents. Children today are not what they seem to be. We have been desperate to control them, keep them in line, to follow rules and morals, but none will ever follow them. There is something greater inside them, one that is deadly, inhuman, and ready to destroy who we are and our kind." Groans were tossed around; one was about ready to leave when Margaret called on him.

"Sir. You are free to leave, but is there any reason why you feel you need to?"

He turned around; Johnny Swift was a black man, fairly tall and with a perpetual confusion and aggravation in his face. His daughter, Vera, was only a few months old with a successful career wife, he wrote down that he felt inadequate to raising a little girl and was forced into marriage to get out of his parents house. His only assumed supernatural encounter was that his wife was stronger than most women he knew; physically stronger but was a thin waist woman.

"I can assure you; this will help you deal with such a child. If, from what I understand about your wife, it is something inherited. But this is a discussion about children; that matter will be dealt with accordingly." Swift returned back to his seat, next to a tall and bulky woman with bright orange hair, tied roughly into a frizzy ponytail like a real horse's tail. She was named Barbara Smith.

Margaret's presentation was the same since then; eventually relenting on of the evil's of children, harboring a sort of magic that the world is unfamiliar with but needed to be told in a way that would get their attention. While the members were small, more people have heard of her outrageous claims for handling children; taken religiously by those finding it harder to discipline their children and thinking they too must harbor an evil presence. Margaret's claim to "alleviate" the problem was to hurt children when they're out of line or show/display questionable talents.

The meetings became monthly, then turned into weekly meetings and recruiting sessions for those interested; sworn to never reveal what is said in the meetings. Reports of suspicious markings on children increased, prompting investigations into the matter. Uncover spies were sent in, posing as interested members, but Margaret saw through their rues, leaving the job to the strongest members of the organization, faces masked and beating their victims into submission, enough times so that, when returned to consciousness, they vaguely remember the key details to report on. No local authority or private investigator could uncover what was going on at the meetings. While some actual child abuse claims have been reported, the steadily increase of physical scars continued to be questionable. Since the organization has started, no one was brave enough to set the responsibility on the group, siting no evidence of foul play or propaganda what so ever.

It seemed no one can pin down or topple their growing power. The Child Abuse Association was slowly becoming another Reich.

**WHAT CHILD IS THIS?**

I couldn't remember the labor I went through, but I found my face hot and sweaty. Reggie was right beside my bed in hospital scrubs, a newspaper strewn over a chair. I could hear the noises of squealed crying; and right by my lifted knees, was a small little being, red and sticky, the umbilical cord about to be removed. Reggie patted my face with a cloth and brushed my hair aside. The baby was wrapped in a towel and brought over to me. I realized where I was now; I was told that I was given drugs to alleviate the pain, drifting to and from consciousness. What was I to do? I _did_ bring someone into the world and the world became a lot scarier. There was no stopping when the bundle was getting close to me. If that was me, I would be placed squarely in my mother's arms again, but I was the one wet and out of breath, thinking if I was now in my mother's skin, forced to look at the small life in front of me at nothing of dread, regret and hate.

Somehow, it didn't turn out as I planned. Already in my arms, it was quiet, already asleep. It knew when to depend on me; there was nothing fierce from it, no trouble, and no tearing apart poetry papers or shoving into closets or Frisbee tosses or broom bashings; "bitch" and "moron" seemed like a dream far away from human vocabulary. This little one; the life I knew was brushed away from a blackboard eraser, one where it was written down who I was and what I was worth. Instead, new words and sensations came to me, written down for me. There wasn't a feeling of doubt, like something didn't fit; everything written down, about who I was came from the people that I knew. A truth… a truth.

Someone came in later for cleanup, removed the paper with a small headline along the bottom in bold letters: "Membership Climbing in CAA, Word Unknown of Organization".

Reggie suggested a simple name for our little girl, almost thinking what I was feeling then. It was now his turn to hold Alison while I rested.

THE END


End file.
